


Cherry Lips

by DictionaryWrites2



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Complicated Relationships, Exhibitionism, First Kiss, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18793711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites2/pseuds/DictionaryWrites2
Summary: This boy was one of them, some slip of a thing scarcely past twenty-five, a graduate from Cambridge, with thin legs and thin arms and a heart-shaped face, with cherry lips and a little waist. Half of Aziraphale’s club was in love with him: he mostly seemed interested in Aziraphale himself, although according to the angel, he’d never made advances.Crowley had been taught his name several times, and spitefully forgot it each time he saw him.





	Cherry Lips

Later, he found out, it was because of some party favour. He hadn’t really been able to draw out of the angel precisely how the situation had unfolded, because he’d ended up very shy and embarrassed in the aftermath, especially because Crowley had seen him[1], but—

But from what Crowley  _could_  glean, it was all to do with a party favour. They’d wanted to include him in the game, he’d agreed, and once they’d spun the bottle, and rolled the nice,  _that_  had been the favour, and Aziraphale had done his best to be polite about it, but the young man had been - in Aziraphale’s words -  _dreadfully insistent, my dear, and so put out at the prospect of refusal. It hardly seemed the done thing, to say no._

Crowley walked into the Hyacinth and Vine, up and into the little upstairs room that was even more firm about being  _members only_  than the main part of the bar, and it was a little past midnight at night. They’d allowed him in, recognising him as  _Mr Fell’s good friend **[2]**_ , and he hadn’t knocked as he’d entered the little bar, stepping in and looking for the familiar ring of men, drinking their genteel drinks and chattering about literature or music.

They mostly looked about the age of Aziraphale’s vessel, in their fifties, sixties, but one or two of the young ones was occasionally allowed upstairs, if he showed himself to be particularly erudite...

Or particularly playful.

This boy was one of them, some slip of a thing scarcely past twenty-five, a graduate from Cambridge, with thin legs and thin arms and a heart-shaped face, with cherry lips and a little waist. Half of Aziraphale’s club was in love with him: he mostly seemed interested in Aziraphale himself, although according to the angel, he’d never made advances. 

Crowley had been taught his name several times, and spitefully forgot it each time he saw him.

There was nothing  _wrong_  with the lad, per se, but Crowley disliked it, when he got too friendly with the angel, when he got him too bogged down in talking about philosophy or music or ethics or romance... He was  _especially_  insufferable, asking Aziraphale about romance. Aziraphale always acted oblivious.

Initially, Crowley stepped forward, looked at the easy circle of men lounging in their armchairs or upon settees: Aziraphale was sitting, as he usually did, in an especially plump, overstuffed couch made of green cloth.

He didn’t see Crowley as he looked in. Conversation was going on around him, talking about some new show, a musical one, but Aziraphale wasn’t concentrating on that, either: his gaze was angled downward, on Cherry Lips, who was on his knees between Aziraphale’s.

Crowley stopped short, his wine glass clutched tightly in his hand.

He tried to convince himself that he was mistaken, that the dark lenses of his sunglasses were playing a trick on him, that the boy had dropped an earring, or a toy, or  _something_. That wasn’t it. It was unmistakable, much as Crowley would like to mistake it as otherwise.

Cherry Lips was kneeling, his pretty fingers splayed on Aziraphale’s thighs[3], and his mouth was wrapped around Aziraphale’s cock, his head bobbing as he dragged his lips over the shaft, as he  _sucked_  at it. His pale skin, much paler than Crowley’s – the stupid man looked  _anaemic_ , he was so damned pale – was flushed pink with exertion, and Aziraphale—

One of Aziraphale’s hands was gripping tightly at the arm of the sofa, but the other hand, the  _other_  of Aziraphale’s lovely, plump, elegant hands, was hovering just over Cherry Lips’ dark hair, like he wanted to fist in it, and couldn’t bear to actually muss him up. The fingers tightened into a fist, and he heard Aziraphale let out a soft moan. Crowley’s whole body thrilled, with fury, and then with… another emotion. A hot one that seemed to ripple beneath his skin.

He looked…

Crowley had never seen Aziraphale have sex before.

He wasn’t really aware, until now, that sex was on the table for an angel. It didn’t seem right, for him to have sex, to have—

To  _enjoy_  it!

Aziraphale’s rounded cheeks were flushed bright pink, and his eyes were screwed up tightly as he breathed heavily, and Cherry Lips reached up, the bastard, the little  _bastard_ , and dragged Aziraphale’s hand into his hair.

Crowley was aroused.

 _Desperately_  aroused. His cock was hard in his trousers, and he didn’t even know what he wanted, only that when he watched Aziraphale getting blown, he  _wanted_ : he wanted to grab Cherry Lips and hurt him, throw him out of the way, wanted to get on top of the angel and grind against him, kiss him,  _bite_  him, bite, bite, bite—

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, and Crowley heard Cherry Lips hum as Aziraphale looked down at him, his fingers now entangled in the young man’s dark locks, gripping at them tightly, and Cherry Lips moaned around his cock as if he enjoyed it, as if he enjoyed Aziraphale pulling his hair, repositioning his mouth to his pleasure… Crowley imagined it. On his knees, in front of the angel, Aziraphale’s hand— “Oh, my dear, dear boy, you really mustn’t—  _oh_ , my dear, if you do that I really will—”

The noise was wonderful.

A soft noise, as much a sigh as a moan, and Aziraphale’s head tipped back as he let it out, as Cherry Lips swallowed him down, and Crowley watched the way he did it, watched the way he leaned back on his heels, gave Aziraphale a long-lashed look from softly brown eyes, and said, “Did you like it,  _Ezra_?”

Ezra!

_Ezra!_

Calling him by his  _forename_ , the little—

“That was— Lovely,” Aziraphale said, a little awkwardly, and Cherry Lips smiled at him, moving to stand as Aziraphale hurriedly tucked away the evidence of his making an effort, and then he said, because it was Aziraphale, “thank you, dear.”

“I’m gonna get a drink,” Cherry Lips purred. “Can I get you something?”

“Oh, no, no, I hardly think so, I’ve my tipple right here,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to his sherry, and Cherry Lips turned on his heels. When he saw Crowley, he smiled, and it was the smile that did it. A superior smile, a little smug quirk of his lips, the chin raising: he smiled at Crowley as if he’d won something, as if he’d taken something Crowley wanted.

Crowley sipped at his wine, and moved directly forward.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley dropped heavily into his lap. “ _Anthony_ , I didn’t realize you were—”

Crowley kissed him savagely, licked into the angel’s mouth and tasted nothing but the sweetness of his cherry, and Aziraphale let out a dizzy noise, one of his hands settling clumsily on Crowley’s lower back.

He looked hazy when Crowley pulled back, his eyes defocused, his lips parted. “Is that— Is that how we’re greeting one another now, my dear?” he asked in a low voice, too out of it to be truly stern.

“ _Yes_ ss _,”_ Crowley said.

“Far be it from me to argue,” Aziraphale said, and opened his mouth to continue, but Crowley squeezed his hips with his knees, and he kissed him again, wound his fingers in Aziraphale’s wan curls and kissed him until his jaw hurt.

He made sure Cherry Lips saw.

 

[1] And, Crowley often thought, when he was feeling particularly bitter, rightly so.

[2] How little they knew!

[3] The  _bastard_  was a flautist, and he had elegant fingers for the purpose, that looked as if they’d been made of painted porcelain. Crowley, not ordinarily an especially violent demon, always felt they looked satisfying to break.


End file.
